


breathe into me

by sugandt



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs in a Car, Canon Compliant, Car Sex, Childhood Friends, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, First Time Blow Jobs, Friends to Lovers, Ignoct Week, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Road Trips, Slow Burn, having bro emotions, i didn't make up any of those tags, i said ignis and noctis are in love and that's that!, just guys bein dudes out in the woods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 07:23:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20503103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugandt/pseuds/sugandt
Summary: “tell me,” noctis says so quietly that ignis strains to hear. his finger aches to run along noctis’ chin, his jaw, his soft cheeks, but it stays in place, “tell me you want me, too.”“highness,” ignis hardly gets the word out, “i cannot allow myself to be so selfish.”a very late entry to ignoct week 2019.





	breathe into me

**Author's Note:**

> too many commas, italics, m dashes.
> 
> i use gladio and gladiolus interchangeably.
> 
> i like this game a lot but every time there's an opening for some really good conversation they just curve out of there, so i indulged myself and wrote them having bro emotions in the woods. maybe ooc
> 
> if there are words all in capitals its bc i missed them during editing and they should be italicized. oops

1\. comfort

ignis is nearing the age of eleven when he takes prince noctis’ hand within his own, and it feels more than platonic. noctis doesn’t notice or doesn’t mind, free hand propping his chin up, elbow on his knee. he watches the sky transition from a deep, blood orange sunset into the night. there are not any stars out tonight, but that’s fine, he just wanted to be outside for a while. noctis’ hand is cold, and ignis squeezes his fingers around noctis’, hoping to warm it up. noctis squeezes back. the temperature outside is dropping by the minute, noctis scooting closer to ignis in hopes to absorb some of his body heat, as much as an eleven-year-old can hold onto. and he waits for the inevitable call of their names to please come inside, you’ll catch a cold if you’re not careful! ignis only lets go of noctis’ hand when he reaches his bedroom, but it’s almost reluctant.

fifteen years old and ignis has smartened up, so to speak. he knows his place in noctis’ life, and it is to advise him, to tutor him, and keep him out of trouble. gladiolus serves a similar purpose, but they have difficulties getting along. thankfully, gladiolus’ position comes in shifts until he’s ready to fully commit to being noctis’ shield and join the kingsglaive, which gives ignis plenty of time to be more than an advisor to him. and he’s not stupid, he knows noctis worries that ignis is only being nice to him because it’s his job because noctis worries like he’s paid to do so. so ignis makes sure to go out of his way to spend personal time with noctis, trying his hand at his silly mobile games, and comforting him when he’s shaking from head to toe, another nightmare.

“that’s the third one this week,” ignis comments, absentmindedly petting noctis’ unruly hair down, “are you worrying again?”

“yeah,” is noctis’ reply, “i think so.”

“do you want to talk about it?” questions ignis, fingers getting caught in a knot. instead of tugging, he takes care to smooth the hair down and files away a mental note to get noctis a detangler.

“not really,” he says, then lies his head down on ignis’ chest, listening to his heartbeat until he’s snoring soundly, drool wetting ignis’ shirt. ignis falls asleep with the lamp still on, arms wrapped protectively around noctis.

seventeen years old, and ignis is in noctis’ study with him, helping him with a particularly difficult piece of altissian literature. noctis is meant to identify the literary devices used in the text, and he’s doing quite well so far. with ignis’ help, at least. when he looks down at the page, ignis notices that... noctis’ eyelashes are beautiful, long and thick; girls would be so jealous of them, he thinks. is he staring? he could look away, but noctis worries his lip between his teeth and it’s just so endearing, cute even. noctis is cute. noctis is cute. the realization reminds ignis that he has something important to tell noctis.

“noct,” ignis starts, voice uncharacteristically hesitant, “i won’t be joining you for tutoring tomorrow evening.”

“huh?” noctis looks up, his eyes a piercing deep blue that never fails to catch ignis off guard, holding galaxies within, “something wrong?”

“no, nothing like that,” ignis reassures him.

“that’s good,” noctis says, “what’s up, then?”

“i’ve got a dinner to attend.”

“boring. wait, do i have to be there?”

“no, don not fret. it’s a personal event.”

“hot date?” noctis teases. ignis remains quiet. _oh!_

“what’s her name?”

and then there’s the obvious. another crucial detail.

“it’s a man.”

“ah,” noctis says again, then holds his breath for a moment. his iggy? well, it makes sense, “what’s his name?”

eighteen, and ignis is still obsessed with noctis’ lips. the curve of his grin, the way he sucks on this bottom lip in thought, the way they look wrapped around a straw when they share a drink together. it drives ignis wild. pink and supple and soft, and part of ignis wants to run his finger along noctis’ lips just to see what he would do. would he bat his hand away, and call him names? or would he let it happen?

noctis is pursing his lips, a half pout, when he receives the news that he is to marry lunafreya. not for a few years, but the political benefits are insurmountable and it must be done in order to facilitate peace. noctis understands, this much he understands. that doesn’t mean he has to like it. except, he’s not angry, or upset, but for now, neutral towards it all. yes, neutral. it’s completely fine— it just means he doesn’t have to find someone himself, which is a little disappointing. alright, very disappointing. but being royalty means arranged marriages, and that’s what he’s always known. the romantic inside of him always wanted to experience first dates, first kisses, first times, the bread and butter of movies that used to sneak out to watch with ignis, a dirty little teenage-romantic-comedy-coming-of-age shaped secret of theirs.

prompto is over, a rare occasion since noctis usually meets prompto at their favourite arcade, or local diners, but he wanted to come over to celebrate the moment noctis mentioned a celebratory dinner with overpriced wine and escargot. prompto snuck a few sips, motioning for ignis to keep quiet whenever they made eye contact. ignis nurses his own glass now, white, working away at a niff militarization report that crossed his desk earlier in the afternoon.

“is it weird to have the big guy always at your door like that?” prompto questions, “like, what if you’re trying to get laid?”

“dude,” noctis sighs, dropping his phone into his lap, “are you drunk? he’s right there, he can hear you.”

gladio cracks a smile. there’s just something about prompto, something special that hits his weak points, and he can’t be upset with him. he’s a good friend, something noctis had desperately needed. it was like prompto knew, and took it upon himself to fill the outgoing best friend shaped hole in noctis’ life.

prompto snorts, “okay, picture this: you bring a girl over, and you really wanna hit it, but mister amicitia is just standing in the doorway like ‘hey guys’ cockblocking you like crazy—“

“who said i’m bringing someone over in the first place?”

“i did!” exclaims prompto, “anyway, and you’re like ‘gladio, _please_ let me fuck.’ unless you have to be, like, a virgin, for some royal reason? i don’t know how this works.”

“i wouldn’t bring a girl over,” noctis says again, and prompto receives a very pointed look from him. did he hit a nerve? perhaps he hit a nerve. but the gaze lasts for too long and it takes prompto longer than necessary to get it. at least, he thinks he gets it.

prompto draws out the word, “oh. i gotcha, dude, you’ve got lady lunafreya now. let me rephrase that— so you bring luna over—“

“enough!” exclaims noctis, reaching behind his head long enough to grab a pillow and wack prompto with it. ignis hopes the blush crawling up his neck isn’t noticeable, but he laughs along with the boys nonetheless, and even gladiolus chimes in.

“sorry about prom,” noctis says to ignis later in the evening when gladiolus’ shift has ended and prompto has fallen asleep in one of the guest bedrooms.

“it’s quite alright,” ignis says, “he’s a character.”

“yeah,” noctis agrees. then he leans over and kisses ignis’ cheek, says goodnight, and stares up at the ceiling, in shock of what he has just done. ignis wants to search for noctis’ hand under the blankets, but that’s not appropriate for an advisor. he’s thankful when noctis’ hand finds his own, lacing their fingers together. noctis squeezes, and ignis squeezes back.

“if something happens, can we get married instead of luna and i?”

“i,” ignis takes a moment, “i don’t know if that’s allowed. given everything— our positions, our sexes.”

“i’m not asking you as my advisor,” there’s a twinge of annoyance in noctis’ voice, “i’m asking you as ignis.”

“we’ll see when the time comes.”

noctis huffs in reply, then wipes at his eyes with his free hand. alright, he’ll admit it— he doesn’t want to marry luna. he doesn’t love her the way he’s supposed to, and as far as noctis is concerned, she doesn’t love him either, romantically, that is. he thinks their bond is as platonic as can be, and sure, he loves her, but as his closest, and oldest friend. he wasn’t lying about understanding exactly why it is necessary, but a piece— a big piece— of him wishes it wasn’t, so he could be a normal kid and fall in love with someone he met in high school, and inevitably break up with only to go off to college, and meet hundreds of new people, and—

“of course, your highness.” ignis says, pulling noctis from his thoughts like he was made to comfort him, “i would be honoured.”

2\. loyalty

ignis breaks up with the man he had gone on his dinner date with after only a few months of being together. no matter where they were, ignis could only think about noctis. how dating felt like some odd version of betrayal, even though he’s allowed to have days (not even days, a few hours) off, allowed to date whomever he desires, so long as it does not interfere with their duties. when he would kiss ignis, it was a little too rough, and a little too quick, and ignis refused to keep up. when he placed his hand on ignis’ thigh, he was quick to brush it off and say _no, not yet, i don’t want to, i’m not ready_.

it takes ignis another handful of months to realize that he wasn’t feeling guilty for being away from noctis for a few hours on a workday. but rather, he wished it were noctis he was kissing, noctis in his lap, noctis attached to his hip.

“i’m sorry,” ignis had said, “i don’t feel the same way you feel about me.”

he had been understanding, “i know. take care of yourself. and prince noctis.”

“what happened to the guy?” noctis asks, eighteen to ignis’ nineteen, “the one you were seeing a couple of years ago.”

“it wasn’t meant to be,” ignis tries to gloss over it, not that the memory is particularly painful, but he doesn’t think there’s much value in reminiscing about a four-month-long relationship that was, for the most part, unrequited.

“why not?” noctis pries, his voice a bit smaller than normal, like he knows he’s digging where he shouldn’t. but he’s curious, and ignis’ romantic and dating life is the closest he’ll ever get to having his own.

“he...” ignis searches for the words, but they’re difficult to string together the way he wants them to, and he finds himself frowning down at his gloved hands. noctis knows, or at least, suspects, he’s crossed a boundary.

“sorry, specs,” he says sheepishly, “you don’t have to tell me.”

it’s not that ignis doesn’t want to tell him. there’s simply nothing to say, because noctis is noctis, and nobody else is. simple. so ignis opts for a quiet _thank you_ and noctis rests his head on ignis’ thighs, counting the crevices in the ornate ceiling of his bedroom.

“i wish i could date,” noctis mutters, more to himself than ignis, “instead of having it decided for me.”

ignis thinks it’s not the _dating_ that noctis is upset about, but the lack of freedom, lack of choice, he has been given in an important part of his life. but perhaps noctis also would like to go out with someone, real dates, not friendship excursions.

“it’s not as fun as you’d imagine,” ignis tries to console him, but as the words come out he realizes it's wrong, futile, “some would consider you to be very lucky.”

“to have an arranged marriage?”

“to lady lunafreya, no less.”

“i love luna,” says noctis, “but i don’t _love_ her, you know?”

“i’m aware,” ignis crosses, then uncrosses his legs, “noct, if i may be so bold. dare i say you don’t _have_ to love lunafreya?”

“i don’t know,” noctis backs away from the topic, folding his legs up to his stomach.

“ah,” says ignis. he brushes a strand of hair from noctis’ eyes, who catches his hand and interlaces their fingers.

“and if i do get with her,” noctis says, eloquent as ever, “what’ll you do? still be my retainer?”

“of course— as far as i’m aware.”

the answer doesn’t fully satisfy noctis. he’s blinking heavily and falling asleep, and ignis fears that he won’t sleep well if he’s stressed. so he opts for a clearer answer.

”even if you marry lunafreya, i will be here.”

_until the bitter end. my loyalty to you knows no bounds._

“if? don’t you mean when?”

ignis’ breath gets caught in his throat. what a silly mistake to make.

“yes. i mean when.”

he can dream, though, of a world where noctis has _choice_ and autonomy and loves _him_. it’s a selfish dream, that’s the point, and ignis entertains it when he feels safe doing so, which is during rare instances that are few and far between. when he’s alone, mostly in the shower, but sometimes in his bed in the dead of night, hand gripping himself and he finishes, but not without a twinge of guilt. in the evening, he finds himself in the bathroom, the water turned on as hot as he can stand it, steam covering the mirror and shower door. back pressed flush against the marble wall, ignis wipes his forehead with his wrist, and tries to think of other things. countless reports, work that must get done, an upcoming birthday that he should procure a gift for.

part of noctis wishes ignis would tell him. it’s not crucial, but he wants to know, so he can put these stupid thoughts of ignis to rest. he’s alone on his balcony, knees pulled to his chest and looking up at the sky, and he’s thinking about ignis. the way his glasses sit high on the bridge of his nose but slide down throughout the day when he’s working away at compiling and editing and organizing and signing off on paperwork. admittedly, noctis should help him more often, but ignis has mentioned he doesn’t particularly enjoy relinquishing control, so noctis holds off and instead busies himself elsewhere.

tell me, noctis imagines himself saying, say you left the man for me, and only me. it’s infuriating, how much noctis has taken a liking to his advisor, his retainer, and more than anything, it’s embarrassing because ignis wouldn’t feel the same way. noctis is a prince with an arranged marriage in the future and ignis is confident and handsome and his own person and he could have any man he wants. but it doesn’t curb noctis’ attraction to him, and it doesn’t curb the fantasies of ignis holding his head in devotion and telling him, “it was all for you, noct.”

3\. habits + quirks

the four try not to talk about it too much. how they’re all but escorting noctis to altissia to get _married_, how he’s only twenty fucking years old, how ignis has all but extinguished his romantic feelings for noctis but they still fester deep within the pit of his chest. god, he’s just perfect, ignis’ intrusive thoughts kick in when he checks the rearview mirror and sees noctis, half asleep against gladio’s shoulder where he’s sure to drool in the next few minutes. he’s lucky gladio doesn’t mind.

instead, they try to focus on the good. extended alone time together, for the first time in, well, ever. sure, they’ve spent copious amounts of time together in the citadel, whether training together for real combat that they’re sure to face, or sharing the largest order of absolutely _decadent_ nachos at a local pub (no black olives, please), prompto often finding himself sipping iced water, tap, after losing his weekly paycheck from betting on chocobo races. but this is different, unrestricted, unmonitored, and so incredibly different than the crown city. they could do anything, no one is around to direct them. it’s unexpectedly thrilling.

“noct,” says ignis around a sigh, “could you please pick up your socks?”

noctis grunts in response, too busy to care about the numerous pairs of socks he has discarded on the floor. he’s playing a new mobile game, and this time, he’s more addicted than prompto. which is saying something, given that prompto is always hunched over on his phone. gladio shoots a quick look to the ground where noctis’ dirty socks lie, then over to ignis with a questioning expression, who nods. do your worst, ignis thinks, hoping gladio gets the message loud and clear.

“you think a real king would be such a slob?” asks gladio, melodramatic in tone, “real kings pick up, and do their own laundry.”

noctis’ eyebrows shoot up, then knit, and his gaze raises to meet to gladio’s, phone forgotten in hand as it drops to the mattress. he’s speechless, fighting back the urge to correct gladio and explain that, well, actually, that is just not true. he lets out a small sound of surprise, and it’s so cute that ignis almost breaks character.

“precisely,” says ignis, “kings, and princes, should take care that their living quarters are properly tidied.”

“yeah, man,” even prompto says, “what iggy said.”

“shut UP,” noctis finally huffs, blotches of red creeping up his neck, “we’re on vacation, it’s called relaxing.”

“not a vacation,” reminds gladio, even though he, too, likes to pretend that’s what this whole road trip is, “we’re joking.”

“jerks,” noctis grits out from between his teeth.

“it’s fun,” ignis gives him a small smile, one that he knows will make noctis melt a little, “but please, dear, pick up your socks.”

he does, but it’s not long until they’re sprawled out all over the floor in the next shitty motel they decide they can afford to stay at. ignis, knowing this is one of those things he can’t just get noctis to do, reluctantly picks them up. he shouldn’t do it, noctis is well old enough to clean up after himself, but he excuses it by saying he cannot focus if there’s a mess.

if there’s one thing noctis and ignis have in common, it’s spending an ungodly amount of time perfecting their hair. the pair get chides from gladiolus, and annoyed complaints from prompto, but hey, like noctis says, nobody looks this good without a bit of effort. beauty. takes. time. a hair out of place, ignis fixes it absentmindedly, tucking a strand of noctis’ hair behind his ear before it springs back to where it was.

noctis nearly turns pink. (“baby skin,” teased gladiolus one hot summer evening, after noctis’ nose turned pink from a nasty sunburn).

“don’t worry about it,” he mutters, smoothing it down himself, but the same thing happens, “it’s just one of those days.”

he catches ignis' eyes in the mirror. refuses to break it. but ignis blinks slowly, then lets his gaze wander to the real noctis, less than a foot away from him. noctis makes eye contact with his reflection. he’s not ready. he’ll never be ready. he’s going to altissia and there’s no reason to ruin what he has with lunafreya (or lack thereof) and he’ll only end up getting hurt. or hurting ignis. or gladio or prompto. getting married to a woman is the only way to protect them, right? protect them from himself, from the crown city, from...

“what are you thinking about?”

noctis is quiet for a moment. there’s no malice or ill intention in ignis’ voice, there never is, and it’s not patronizing either. ignis cares about him, and he’s curious, a slightly worried expression crossing his features, but more than anything, he just wants to know noctis isn’t getting lost in his head again. because it gets bad, sometimes, if nobody notices or ignis isn’t there to curb it, day after day noctis locking himself in his room, under his desk or his duvet. ignis isn’t sure which is worse: the strain it puts on his body or the strain it puts on his mind.

“altissia.”

“what about altissa?” ignis coaxes.

“i don’t want it,” noctis feels as if he’s about to boil over, a kettle full of bubbling water threading to cascade over the rim, “i don’t want to go.”

“none of us do,” says ignis, in a moment of boldness, scoffing, not at noctis but at the idea of marrying off one’s son at such a young age, “don’t tell me you think any of us want to see you sent off like that. married off like you’re a dog.”

perhaps ignis isn’t supposed to speak ill of the royals— he could lose his position just for saying that, noctis could kick him out and never have to see him again. but when he looks at noctis his eyes are shimmering, glassy and wobbling and ignis has just the right amount of time to capture all five feet and some inches of noctis into his arms before he begins to weep.

they decide to take the day off.

prompto runs to the nearest crow’s nest and picks up the largest order of fries-to-go that’s available, they eat it for a late lunch before gladio insists noctis go outside, even if just for an hour. ignis stays back, not quite sure why, with prompto.

“you’ve got it bad, igster,” says prompto, absentmindedly flicking through tv channels. the remote is, well, crusty, to put it nicely. and it’s true. ignis has it _bad_.

“you know i just want him to be happy,” ignis says. happy with me. happy in insomnia. he pushes those thoughts away, intrusive. he should make food for when the other boys come back, they might be hungry and ignis tends to stress-cook.

“i’ll tell you this for sure,” prompto tosses the remote down onto the bed, “he’s not happy with all of us moping around and trying not to talk about what’s waiting for him in altissia.”

ignis eyebrows raise, half in part of prompto’s comment, half because he just noticed a coffee maker under the tv stand and how perfect a cup would be right now.

“we need to lighten up. all of us. we’re going to make this a good trip for noct, okay?”

“of course, prompto.”

he’s the last to fall asleep that night, hand on the small of noctis back like it’s where it belongs, and the first to rise the next morning. when he’s driving the regalia, the beautiful and sleek car that he’s always dreamed of driving, noctis slips himself into the passenger seat, calling shotgun. prompto readies himself to argue, but instead, bows ninety degrees and opens the door for noctis. he says the backseat will give him a new perspective but ends up taking blurry photos out of the side, and some of gladiolus as well.

noctis’ hand bumps into ignis’ once. ignis reaches for the gearshift, at the same time noctis tries to set down his drink in the cup holder, and ignis, instead of being passive and letting noctis go, takes something _he_ wants and interlaces their fingers together. it takes all of his self-control to not check the rearview mirror, feeling gladiolus’ eyes burn into the back of his head. he’s lucky he’s disciplined. noctis’ fingertips drum absentmindedly on ignis’ hand, a smug grin pulling at the corner of his lips, and ignis suddenly no longer cares for gladio’s stare.

4\. status ailment

weeks pass, and ignis learns that the worst thing about noctis is that he doesn’t tell them when he’s hurting. of course, this is something he had already known. but when his warping has taken a physical toll on his body so strong he can hardly walk, there’s not much ignis can do, other than protect him until his strength comes back. he thinks that’s the worst part. so when a battle ends and noctis falls to one knee ignis lets his hand find its way to noctis’ shoulders as he leads him back to camp, noctis leaning against him all the while. standing makes him dizzy, so noctis sits on the rocky ground with his shoulder against ignis’ thigh, head leaning back to rest on his lap. ignis folds his arms and is thankful for his leather gloves; he can’t card his hand through noctis’ hair.

“we’re running low on cash,” prompto says in that voice of his, the one he uses when he wants something, and he’s gearing up to ask for it, “how do a few big hunts sound?”

“fine,” noctis agrees around a straw. gladiolus nods, says something about flexing a new technique he had come up with, but ignis is too preoccupied with watching the crumbs on noctis’ chin. how can he be twenty and still make a mess when he eats? and why is it so endearing, he wonders, as he reaches across the table to brush the crumbs off his face. he tries to ignore the way noctis recoils, not because he’s upset with ignis but because he’s just LIKE that, like a feline with a penchant for personal space.

“apologies,” says ignis, out of respect more than truth.

“no worries,” noctis’ fingers feel around his chin for any more crumbs, “thanks.”

ignis’ smile, silly as it may be, is smitten.

and then noctis is suspended in midair, mindflayer’s tentacles encasing him and squeezing the life out of him, pulsing, becoming tighter and tighter until noctis’ sword drops to the ground with a clang. noctis’ head lolls back, from what ignis can see, and his eyes are at half-mast. prompto fills the thing with bullets, and gladiolus rages at it, and ignis, in a second, feels his chest tighten, then explode with something, something he’s never felt before. something primal, he doesn’t have time to think, feral, animalistic, his throat burns and his vision goes black, and he can’t feel it when the mindflayer drops noctis, tentacles going slack. he killed it. he always kills it. _how could he have let this happen?_ there’s a reason ignis always stays close to noctis in battle, carries extra phoenix downs, so this kind of thing _doesn't happen_. and how did they even get here? mere hours ago noctis was sat across from him, lively as noctis ever gets, and now he’s— he’s—

gladiolus catches noctis, prompto throws his gun to the dirt, and ignis, beside himself, sinks his daggers into the mindflayer again, again, again. there’s an awful, wet sound, then a crunching sound of metal meeting rock, and there’s black mud up ignis’ arms, on his face and his neck. blood? he’s unsure if it’s his own, noctis’, or the flayer’s. it gets under his fingernails, into the cuts on his skin, and covers his glasses, obscuring his vision. he slashes at the thing, tearing it open and ripping it apart at the seams. it’s wet and it’s hot and it’s been dead since it fell from the air. ignis only realizes in the midst of it that he’s sobbing, he utterly sobs into the flayer’s body, and the soot that it leaves behind when it dissipates into the earth. prompto pulls him to his feet, murmurs words about it being okay, they’re going to be fine but _ignis you’ve got to walk, we’ve got to get noctis to safety._

and this time it’s different, and noctis doesn’t wake up for at least three days, and ignis sits on the ottoman, back facing noctis, listening to his even breathing, deep. his arm is broken and wrapped up in a potion-dipped bandage that ignis hopes doesn’t cause him much discomfort he likes (loves) him so much it’s PAINFUL. everything about him is wonderful, even when he’s being moody and sour, and he just wishes noctis would open his eyes, even if just to complain about being sore, or being tired, or not wanting to eat any carrots or broccoli. ignis just wants to hear his voice.

“you scared the shit out of us,” gladio chastises, masking his worry with a tough love of sorts, before noctis’ eyes finally peel open. he lies peacefully, dreaming. ignis wonders what about.

“me?” ignis feigns disbelief. something feral came out of him, ripped its way out from his core.

“no,” gladiolus says like ignis is dumb, “the other ignis.”

“i’m prepared to die for him,” ignis says like it’s an explanation, a fucking explanation as to why he obliterated the thing when it was past being dead. gladio exhales through his nose, like he’s trying to keep his composure.

“you think i’m not? or prompto? ignis, that wasn’t careful. you’re always the one who explains strategies, but that wasn’t a strategy. were you even thinking? that was…,” gladio trails off and ignis winces, “you’ve got to tell him.”

“it would be too much for him,” ignis says vaguely, he could play it off later if gladiolus were to question him about it. something about noctis being disoriented from too much sleep, not eating or drinking, his head’s not screwed on properly right now.  
  
“you, of all people, aren’t that reckless without a reason,” gladio says.

“perhaps it was a bit of overkill,” he finally relents, but gladiolus isn’t even listening anymore. he rushes to the side of noctis’ bed, as their prince grunts himself awake, eyes wavering as they try to focus. it’s a lot of stimulation at once, gladio telling him something about taking it easy, ignis sitting down on the other side of the bed, dipping the mattress, prompto wailing about being so worried and afraid.

part of noctis feels bad, he _was_ being reckless in the fight, only because he wanted to get it over with quickly and make some quick gil. but his arm feels worse, and he nearly howls in pain when he tries to stretch it out. prompto hastily rifles through the armiger, tossing things out instead of shuffling them around. clothing, dumped, dual blades, thrown across the room, daggers, dropped at his feet. and then he finds their last elixir, cracking it open over noctis’ arm and waiting for it to work its magic. noctis’ bones shift beneath his skin, it feels like a beast is crushing his arm under its foot, and tears immediately stream down his cheeks, hot. he howls in pain, and ignis can’t bear to listen. noctis’ bones rearrange themselves under his skin, and as soon as the colour from the elixir has faded, his arm is as good as new. no pain. okay, a bit of phantom pain, but it’s better than what it was.

“oh, noct,” prompto sobs melodramatically, “i was so afraid you’d never wake up!”

“you, afraid?” noctis repeats through heavy breaths, voice ragged from disuse, dry, “as if i wasn’t, like, in a coma.”

sometimes there’s no getting through to him. gladio’s lips settle in a firm, straight line, and although he knows yelling at noctis has an extremely odd effect of inspiring him (perhaps he just responds best to negative reinforcement), he’s emotionally exhausted. so he stays like that, honey-golden eyes boring forward.

“please,” ignis starts, “try to understand it from our perspective. we didn’t know when you were to wake up.”

noctis remains quiet for a few minutes, but his fingers, under the sheets, find their way to gladio’s knee, and he murmurs the quietest of apologies, and ignis’ heart swells twice its size because it’s like noctis is _finally_ learning how to be a person. so what if it’s not the most eloquent or fleshed out of apologies, what matters is gladio now has noctis in his arms, bear-like embrace, prompto wrapping himself around gladio’s shoulders from behind.

“we were just worried,” prompto says against gladio’s shoulder, “but you’re awake now, so it’s okay.”

ignis feels a bit like he’s intruding. he knows, he KNOWS that he’s just as much family as the rest of them are, but he hesitates to take the first step forward, irrational insecurity holding him back. what he lacks in platonic relationships he makes up for in other areas: diplomacy, education, tactics. theoretical wars. politics and economics knowledge. preparing meals, even if he does not particularly like it.

“c’mere, iggy,” it’s gladio who says it, and ignis awkwardly shifts his way towards the trio, careful not to crush noctis’ legs. he feels an arm curl around him, not thick enough to be gladio’s and not thin enough to be prompto’s.

“dare i say,” ignis begins, teasingly, “you’re putting on some muscle?”

“yeah,” prompto agrees, “he’s gonna rival gladio, soon!”

muffled by ignis’ shoulder, noctis’ breath tickles the hairs on the back of his neck-- dare ignis also say he feels noctis’ lips, dry and chapped and pale, against his skin?

“shut up,” says noctis, and there’s no venom in his voice.

he eats, he drinks, and he recovers after a couple days. ignis doesn’t miss the way noctis watches him more, observing the way he moves and fights and busies himself with cooking, playing card games and drinking games with prompto and gladiolus. it’s almost like he’s going out of his way to avoid speaking with noctis, and it’s infuriating. it must be a cruel joke, condemnation from the astrals for something he has done in a past life.

it’s like ignis has gone cold.

he finds ignis up late one night, leaning against the regalia as the tank fills with gasoline, the scent thick in the air, noctis thinks its a bit weird but he quite likes it. they’ve got a long drive tomorrow morning, back to hammerhead from old lestallum where they’ve been hunting easier prey, lining their pockets, and nursing noctis back to health. what’s most important, is that ignis is alone, the motel silent, save for the humming of the overhead lights and funneling pump.

“you’re awake,” noctis observes, always observes more than he speaks, it’s easier that way.

“likewise,” ignis replies, white-knuckled from how hard he grasps the pump. he’s cornered.

“wanna go for a drive?” asks noctis, but it’s not a question, a non-debatable request from his highness. ignis looks at him, face utterly unreadable, and noctis takes it as a positive affirmation. it’s dangerous to drive at night, daemons and horrifying monsters lurking in the shadows, but it’s a risk he’s willing to take to get ignis alone and figure out just why he’s been avoiding him. noctis waits patiently for ignis to finish up, in the passenger seat, leather. it still feels new.

“to what do i owe this honour?” asks ignis, starting the car. he sounds… bitter? noctis shrugs in return, confidence diminishing by the second. he drives for a few minutes, out of the lights and plunging the regalia into the darkness of lucis, sending a silent prayer to cindy for providing them with new, daemon-repelling headlights.

“i just…” noctis can’t look at him, so he looks out the window instead, “you’ve been ignoring me?”

“noctis--”

“i just want to know if i did something wrong,” he says quickly, almost tripping over his words, “and if i did, i’m sorry.”

ignis’ face falls, “you could never.”

“okay,” noctis worries his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment, “good. so then, why?”

“the lich,” ignis searches for the words to describe what he had done to it, “i tried to keep killing it, even though it was dead.”

noctis stays quiet, but the unspoken WHY hangs in the air.

“after it— it killed you!” ignis rarely speaks with his hands, but both fly up from the wheel for a moment, “i was beside myself. we lacked adequate curatives. it was just horrible.”

“ignis,” noctis rarely says his full name, it feels odd rolling off his tongue, like it doesn’t quite taste right. he turns to look at his advisor, face illuminated only by the lights on the dashboard, softly. the way ignis wets his lips, it’s surreal to see him lacking confidence and it’s humanizing and noctis feels a primal swell in his stomach that urges him to close the distance between their lips.

“it would be,” ignis strains to get the words out, “wise for you to be more cautious, before similar battles.”

“i am,” noctis’ voice comes out meek, he wants to look away but he can’t, he can’t, he can’t, “and i was afraid, too. that i was going to lose you, and the guys. don’t tell prompto, okay? he would never let me hear the end of it.”

not that ignis had said anything about fear. _you, and the guys_. ignis is different from them. don’t get your hopes up, he tells himself, but it’s so easy, it’s too easy when noctis is mere feet away from him looking like a kicked puppy in need of a home. it’s times like this when ignis thinks noctis is most vulnerable. he’s still a boy, only two years younger than him, but the world is harsh and gritty and it gets under his skin more often than noctis admits. he’s not the best at apologizing, or expressing what emotions he has. and he seems so apathetic ignis sometimes thinks noctis will be the death of him, driving him to insanity because making any decision takes centuries. but he’s come to learn that noctis’ apathy is a result of focusing his attention elsewhere, and of his stubborn nature. it’s not his fault.

“i was an animal,” ignis whispers, more to himself than noctis, reeling back out of his thoughts.

“let’s go back,” his prince suggests, and immediately ignis turns the regalia around, noctis searching for ignis’ hand on the console, threading their fingers together.

it’s like noctis knows all of ignis’ weak spots, he seems to know precisely how to unravel him. the ride back is quiet, not uncomfortably so, and noctis vibrates in his seat from the adrenaline, the come-down from his prior anxiety. ignis parks and noctis makes no move to take his seatbelt off, to open the door and return to their room.

neither does ignis.

“something on your mind?”  
  
noctis meets ignis’ eyes. seafoam green. astrals, he thinks, ignis is ethereal. he’s tall, looks lean but noctis knows he’s muscular, more than toned, beneath his clothes, he’s kind, and thoughtful, and selfless, and his humour is almost as dry as noctis’ own.

he holds his breath, afraid he’ll ruin the moment.

maybe it’s worth ruining.

“i want to fuck you,” says noctis.  
  
5\. public, yet private.

the windows of the regalia have fogged up, thick, noctis could draw on them with his fingers, but his hands are a little busy right now. fisted into ignis’ leopard button-down, his hands tug on the fabric, gently, because he knows ignis would chastise him otherwise. he kisses raw, not quite sure what to do with his tongue or teeth while ignis’ tongue wraps around his own, retreats, comes back, noctis’ hips would roll if they weren’t being held down by ignis’ thigh. admittedly, there are other places they could be doing this than a cramped car parked behind the old lestallum motel, his father’s car, no less. but there’s a bead of sweat rolling down his temple and ignis is so warm and so close and everywhere all at once, he can’t be bothered to think of anything else.

ignis’ hand extends behind noctis’ shoulders, aiming for the side of the door, but hitting the window straight on, fingers slipping down the glass and hitting the door handle. it sounds like it hurts, a dull pain, but ignis doesn’t say anything other than _fuck_ and noctis thinks it’s half his own doing. there’s a smeared handprint in the condensation on the window, ignis’ hand damp and cold and maybe bruised, but he doubts it.

“iggy,” noctis exhales, hot breath tickling ignis’ jaw, he cranes his head and kisses there, sucks at the taut skin of his neck— he tastes salty and sweet and bitter all at once, “ignis, fuck me.”

“don’t be daft,” ignis says through his teeth, but his hands say otherwise, one curling roughly into noctis’ hair, the other one splaying out on his stomach, still gloved and burning hot, “not in the regalia.”

noctis sucks particularly hard, teeth unpracticed and nipping ignis’ neck, and he can feel the rumble of ignis’ quiet moan against his teeth, “inside.”

“don’t want to wake prompto,” ignis watches his face pout in concentration as noctis fiddles with the buttons on his shirt, “or gladiolus.”

“then be quiet,” says noctis, and there will be a mark on ignis’ neck tomorrow morning, purples and deep reds of a bruise he’s sure to press down on tenderly and remember just how he got it. noctis, in a moment of boldness, pulls ignis down flush against him, then shimmies around to be on top. he’s uncoordinated as can be, his knee hitting the console and head hitting the roof, ignis own head bumps against the door but he shifts away slightly, grinding right against noctis’ thigh. did he mean to do that?

noctis’ hands prop himself up, weight on his palms, pressed against the black leather seats, and his hips rut down. he gasps. he moans. he sucks in a quick breath and it’s got to be one of the best things ignis has ever seen. it’s for him, it’s for _him_. noctis shucks his jacket off— he strips for him.

“ah— fuck—,” noctis does it again, eyes fluttering and eyebrows knitting, “yes—“

“highness, i—“

“please,” he says, a little bit quieter, hips finding their rhythm, and ignis’ pants are unbearably tight. the amount of which noctis wants him is almost palpable in the air. when he looks down at ignis, it’s like there’s a storm in his eyes like he’s never seen before, and he knows ignis wants him too. perhaps more. ignis nods, trying to find the proper words. his hand curves around the swell of noctis’ ass, gives it a playful squeeze and a slap, so unlike him it sends a shiver down noctis’ spine. is he like this with his other partners? what else does noctis not know? ignis runs his hand up noctis’ back, curls around his neck to guide him back down into a wet, sloppy kiss.

ignis prides himself in his composure, always has. but the way noctis pulls his shirt off by the neck and throws it behind the driver’s seat makes ignis forget everything he’s ever taught himself. noctis’ skin is half-lit by the street lights meant to keep daemons away, and ignis nearly rips his gloves off, throwing them haphazardly at the front seat.

“fuck me,” noctis repeats himself as ignis’ bare fingers slip into his mouth, spit-slick. _i’m not going to say it again_.

noctis is made up of too much tongue and hollowed cheeks, spit rolling down his chin and dripping onto the seat. it’s disgusting, in gladio’s designated spot, and ignis loves every second of it, watching his dick disappear between noctis’ lips into velvet mouth. he’s not practiced, not sure what he’s doing, but _six_, he’s enthusiastic. his eyes positively glimmer; he’s proud of himself for being able to make ignis come undone so quickly. in all fairness, he’s always had the effect on him. he pulls away to breathe, a thick string of own spit hangs from his bottom lip. without thought, noctis spits, and knows it’ll stain, but he hopes not. ignis has a sense of propriety, wipes it up with a relatively clean finger, intending just to wipe it on a piece of discarded clothing.

“my shirt,” noctis says, but ignis can barely hear it, and his fingers are already moving and rubbing against noctis’ cheekbone. if possible, noctis turns an even deeper shade of red, uncharacteristically shy as he leans forward to leave a gentle kiss on the tip of ignis’ dick. and then another kiss. and another. his lips trail down ignis’ shaft until they reach his other hand, moving it to rest on ignis’ exposed stomach, tongue slipping out only to drag back up to the top. he likes it. he... _likes_ it. ignis groans, guttural. his stomach tightens at the sight— all noctis, and all for him.

he’s close.

“with practice,” ignis mutters, low, holding noctis’ head in place while his throat works to open, to accommodate him, “you could be quite good at this.”

“you saying i’m not?” noctis retorts a few moments later, in between bated breaths.

“your technique could use refining,” ignis says, then guides noctis back down.

ignis comes from noctis’ hand, tasting himself on noctis tongue as they’re once again slotted together. it only takes a few minutes of ignis’ hand down noctis’ pants for him to come too, so good his thighs involuntarily shake and his eyes roll back and his toes curl inwards, white-hot and needy.

“when will you fuck me?” finally, finally noctis is flushed and breathless and _wrecked_, and still asking for ignis to fuck him. what a brat.

“you’re insatiable,” ignis mutters, as noctis fits himself under his chin. he can feel his grin against his neck.

“yeah,” noctis agrees.

“another day, love,” says ignis, and immediately noctis pouts. they stay there for a few minutes, noctis tucked under ignis’ chin, absentmindedly pressing his lips to his exposed collarbone. 

"shall we return to our room?" 

"i'm not done yet." 

6\. home.

noctis sticks close by. closer than before, he can feel gladio’s watchful eyes on him as he presses himself closer to prompto. despite his size, prompto holds onto so much body heat, and noctis doesn’t quite understand it. but he’s comfortable, even if there are rocks digging into his ass, and wind tousles his hair annoyingly, and they’re stuck in the depths of malmalam thicket. where, of course, there is little cell phone service, so he can’t even play king's knight! prompto lazily plays with his hair, petting noctis’ head like he’s a household pet. noctis would fight it, but it feels quite nice, actually, so he leaves prompto to it and lets his eyes drift shut. it doesn’t feel as good as when ignis does it, says the little voice in the back of his mind. ignis cleans the cooking gear with practiced hands, noctis can hear the dishes stacking when ignis sets them down to dry. gladio turns his gaze away with a huff, satiated with the way he’s been careful to not let noctis be too reckless again, and stretches out his legs.

it so happens that, late at night when they’ve all fallen asleep on each other, ignis’ glasses go missing. it takes a handful of special feed, noctis’ 20/20 vision, and much patience, but he gets them back, both of them completely soaked from the rain. noctis hands them back, fingers brushing against ignis’.

he’s tired of pulling back. he needs to say something, _now_.

“thank you,” ignis says, pushing his dripping hair out of his eyes, and gods, has there ever been a more enticing than ignis scientia with his hair down? clad in a wet shirt, that clings to his body, almost see-through in the dawn’s light. he doesn’t bother trying to put the glasses on, too preoccupied with fixing his hair, and knowing they won’t do much in the rain. noctis takes a moment to look him up, down, back up again, hoping ignis’ eyesight is poor enough that he can’t see noctis so blatantly checking him out.

“yeah,” says noctis, and his chest goes tight. ignis is the whole package, he’s everything noctis wants, could ever want, has ever wanted. he’s a three-course meal, dessert with icing and sprinkles and a cherry on top. chocolate, caramel syrup on his tongue. maybe that’s a bit much, a silly comparison to make. i’m so in love with you, noctis thinks.

“damned bird,” ignis mutters, like he’s trying to keep the conversation alive, dancing around the elephant in the room. well, noctis thinks, they’re outside, so it’s more like the black chocobo in the thicket. now who is the one avoiding the topic? lighting strikes in the distance, and a few moments later, thunder shakes the ground. the rain keeps falling, refusing to let up. at least it’s not icy.

“we need to talk,” noctis says, catching ignis’ wrist as he shakes his gloves out, “what is this?”

“a storm,” ignis says simply, absentmindedly, like he didn’t hear noctis’ question.

“no.”

ignis stops. he swallows, thick. his pale, sea-green irises are glassy when they meet noctis’, raindrops dripping from his blonde eyelashes. they roll down his cheekbones, disappearing down his neck and into his shirt. noctis thinks he could be happy to swim in his eyes until the sun sets, the moon rises, and then do it all over again.

“you,” noctis starts, not knowing where he’s going, “you hold me at night. you grab my hand in the car. you take care of me. you put me before yourself. you fucked— you let me— in my dad’s car! are we going to talk about this?”

“it’s my job.” ignis says, weak. he’s ruining everything.

“last time i checked, getting your dick sucked isn’t in your job description,” noctis bites, “i’m more than just your _fucking_ job, and you know it.”

it’s rare for noctis to show so much emotion, he tends to be agreeable, quiet, giving into prompto’s pleading eyes and pouting expression when he asks to pull over for a photo. it’s even more rare for him to show anger, he only gets this upset if it’s something he has been holding onto for a long time.

“don’t do this,” says ignis, cautioning, ignores the insult because noctis has a bad habit of reacting first and thinking later.

he wants it so bad. he wants to go home. he wants to be alone in his apartment, cell phone forgotten, noctis forgotten, pushing down his romantic feelings like he always does because it’s _noctis, _the crowned prince, of all people that holds his heart in his palms. it’s easy, at home, to get away from it all. to lock himself away, throw himself into his work because it’s all he knows, call up gladiolus or prompto to distract himself. it worked, as well as it could and for as long as it lasted. but it’s not even a possibility anymore, they’re constantly together, camping, four grown men in an expensive car, caravan, a motel room with two twin beds, noctis flush against his side. and it’s completely unfair, and he feels like a child and it’s all his fault. how many times has he stared at his phone, half hoping noctis would call him just to talk? and now he’s here, and it’s terrifying.

“i have to,” noctis says. if not now, when? when he’s married? when he’s given lucis an heir? when prompto and gladio are with them?

“will you—“ ignis fiddles with his glasses— he never _fiddles_ with anything, “will you at least let me look at you?”

he slips his glasses on. blinks. looks at noctis with feigned confidence. neither of them speaks, noctis wets his lips and struggles to find the words to break the silence. he drops his head, like he’s shutting down and about to tell ignis to forget it, but ignis catches his chin between his fingers and noctis’ knees wobble, as if they’re about to give.

“tell me,” noctis says so quietly that ignis strains to hear. his finger aches to run along noctis’ chin, his jaw, his soft cheeks, but it stays in place, “tell me you want me, too.”

“highness,” ignis hardly gets the word out, “i cannot allow myself to be so selfish.”

“don’t call me that,” noctis says it out of reflex more than anything, his mouth moving before his brain has time to catch up. ignis lets go of his chin, awkwardly, tucks his fingers into his palms, runs his thumb over his knuckles.

“don’t make _this_ difficult—” ignis counters, referring to their relationship. unconventional. strange. prompto knows, gladiolus knows, ignis can tell by the way their eyes watch them like they’re their own personal drama channel, then meet and grin smugly. or when prompto coughs, uncomfortable, or when gladiolus’ eyes roll and he gives the pair more space than they need.

“do you think it was a mistake, the other night?”

“how could you ever think that?”

“then tell me you _want_ me.”

“i can’t."

ignis wonders if it's worth it— watching his prince marry a woman he doesn't romantically love in return for peace. he should not stand in the way, no, he cannot stand in the way of that inevitable fact. 

“six, you’re such an asshole,” noctis’ voice is heavy, laced with anger and hurt— mostly hurt, “i wish i could go home.”

“you fucked up,” says gladiolus when ignis returns without noctis on his hip, “big time.”

ignis sighs, then echoes gladio, “big time.”

7\. monochrome

“go get him,” says gladiolus, catching prompto’s attention, who wears a rather wary expression. he gets up from the ground, dusts off his pants, and sets his camera in its bag carefully.

“can we leave the thicket, first?” asks prompto, eyes wide and pleading “there are too many bugs.”

“noct hates them too,” ignis says before he can stop himself. prompto gives him a sympathetic smile.

“you know we’re not in insomnia, anymore,” gladiolus reminds ignis, ignoring prompto’s comment, “there’s nothing to go back to.”

“i love him.”

“why do you refuse to tell him?”

“have you forgotten the purpose of our journey? our positions in his life?”

“forget about altissia for a damn second. you know we’re more than his retainers to him, and he’s more than a lazy, apathetic prince to us. he’s family, ignis.”

“that doesn’t negate—”

“what’s it going to take for me to convince you that stifling your emotions is the worst way to approach it?”

“as if you’re any better.”

"he knows what awaits at the cape. so be selfish, for once."

sure, ignis has been selfish, but when it's small things. letting noctis curl into him at night, holding his hand when he's had yet another nightmare. but taking noctis for himself... all of him. it's unthinkable. 

"not just for you," gladiolus says, "for noctis. and prompto and i."

“uh, guys,” prompto interjects, “he’s coming back.”

“all i’m saying is,” gladiolus lowers his voice, “there’s a high chance you’ll regret keeping quiet.”

so they fight their way to the royal tomb, they put the beast there to rest, and noctis collects the scepter that lies there and waits for him, with a heavy hand. they don’t talk much, prompto buzzing with anxiety, gladiolus keeping watch like the guard he’s been trained to be, ever-stoic.

“our destination?” ignis asks from the driver’s seat, not to anyone in particular, but he doesn’t receive an answer. noctis seems to recoil when he speaks, head turning away to look out the window as if he can’t bear to even _look_ at ignis.

“maybe the nearest outpost?” suggests prompto, “we could do with a shower.”

ignis doesn’t drive to the nearest outpost. he drives to the one with noctis’ favourite fishing spot nearby. he’s not sure why he bothered asking in the first place. it takes twice as long, and if prompto or gladiolus have any complaints, they don’t voice them. thankfully. they don’t moan about not staying in a real bedroom when ignis pulls up beside the caravan, and they definitely don’t complain when it’s ignis who pays the thirty gil fee. he leaves the rest of them to see if there is any new information about the area, any risky hunts he can politely decline in favour of keeping all of them safe, and alive.

he returns to the caravan with procurement locations, but when noctis notices him approaching, begins to wander off in the direction ignis remembers the pond being, fishing pole in hand. despite the situation, he feels a bit of pride in himself.

“how is he?” asks ignis from his spot at the caravan’s table, as gladiolus towels off his hair.

“livid,” answers gladio, “but he’ll come around.”

“might take a while,” prompto chimes in, earning himself a pointed glare from the other two men, “what? he’s a virgo.”

and somehow, it makes sense.

he finds noctis, corners him yet again, in the crow’s nest diner. the sun has long since set, and only a handful of hunters remain in the diner. noctis holes himself up near the entrance, playing one of the pinball machines that he loves so much, neon green, blue, purple, red, flashing across his face, too focused to notice ignis approach him. he smells a bit like the outdoors, the scent clinging to his neck and his behemoth jacket, and ignis just hopes he washed his hands before putting them all over the machine. when he does notice noctis, it’s by the telltale purple-hued leopard print shirt in his peripheral, the one that he tore off him just a few nights ago, the one that’s still missing a button or two from noctis’ frenzied hands.

“what?” noctis asks, with little bite to his tone. like he’s not fully committed to being upset at the moment, he’s there, but not in his entirety, and ignis wonders if this whole time has been in love with a ghost.

8\. dawn

ignis waits until noctis loses, which proves to be longer than he initially anticipated. either noctis is lucky, or he’s been practicing behind their backs. or he’s just working harder to put off talking with him. no matter; ignis understands.

“you were correct, noct,” ignis steps closer, a small step, like noctis is a fearful kitten and ignis does not mean to scare him away, “you are SO much more than my job.”

“if you’re here to apologize, save it.”

“you are my entire career. you are my entire _life_, and you have been,” ignis pauses, takes an uncharacteristically unsteady breath, “since i was six. and you think, noctis, do you truly think i would throw away sixteen years of servitude that easily?”

“but you regret sleeping with me,” noctis stresses. his first time, with someone who regrets it, how absolutely upsetting. not to mention the blow to his ego!

“quite the contrary,” ignis recalls the night; noctis’ weight on him like he had always thought about, it was better than he could have ever imagined, sweaty and hot and misplaced limbs, he couldn’t have conjured it up himself if he tried, “i cannot tell you how much i have longed for such a thing. it was— it was akin to something out of my dreams.”

the thing about ignis is that he can be infuriatingly romantic when he wants to be. an effect of being well-read, well-spoken. he didn’t have a choice, he had to be good with his words if he were to keep noctis out of trouble. like when they used to sneak out at night together, ignis buying him street food and sweets and watching the cosmos reflect in his eyes when he would look up at the stars. the memories, noctis cherishes them, and there’s a small piece of him that wants to live in those moments forever, molten chocolate on his tongue and fireworks that explode in the sky and make him feel insignificant.

“yeah right,” noctis says halfheartedly, refusing to even look at ignis, staring intently at the _justice monsters x_ backlit screen. the music dies down, and the smaller screen at the bottom prompts him to insert two more quarters, please, warns him it’ll be game over in ten, nine, eight…

“i have harboured,” ignis’ attention turns to look at the screen, too, seven, six, five, “i’ve felt this way since we were children, stupid teenagers. i spent years willing for it to be somebody else, but… it’s always been you, noct.”

“so what-- where would you want to go from here?” he meets ignis’ gaze, and he swears its accidental but noctis steps forward, the distance between them closing in, diminishing.

four, three, two.

“you always ask the most _difficult_ questions, don’t you?” ignis’ voice, laced with admiration, and he’s smitten, always smitten, “where would you want to go?”

one.

“galdin,” noctis answers around a smug grin, “and i want you to say it back.”

an explosion of neon lights illuminates noctis' face as the system resets the score, multicolour. 

game over.

“i want you,” ignis breathes, opens the gates and lets noctis in, “i have _always_ wanted you.”

**Author's Note:**

> twt @ spiritdrops


End file.
